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I don't remember how long I stood there; craning my neck towards the heavens in a futile attempt to discern where the building stopped and the atmosphere began. This was it, I thought, the beginning of the rest of my life. Twenty-two years all led up to this point. And all I could do was stare at the sky like a moron. Two weeks ago, I was just another English major wasting his time schlepping around Boston looking for something more intellectually stimulating than McDonald's. I came home every night to a filthy loft apartment smelling of French fries and chicken nuggets. When I submitted a résumé here, I thought it was a pipe dream, something to stave off depression for a couple of months before I finally concluded that they would never call. I had never been happier about being wrong in my short life. As soon as I got the job, I immediately sped over to McDonald's and informed my manager I quit. I then informed the customers that said manager liked to jerk off into the happy meals. It was a retribution for every day off they had called me in, for every customer that treated me like trash, every kid that threw their lunch at the wall, and every other horrendous, degrading activity I had been subjected to during my four month employment. As I left the parking lot for the last time, I lit a cigarette and smiled. I was now a writer
Twelfth floor. The dream job I've been yapping about was for a new music magazine called Demolition. At first, it sounded like some greasy little booklet for "metal heads" that had no clue who Judas Priest was and thought Korn was tough. To my surprise, though, the founder was quite knowledgeable about music, as Funhouse blared from speaker during the entire duration of the interview. Needless to say, I was impressed. Now, however, all the Iggy Pop in the world couldn't help me now. I was as nervous as a kindergartener on his first day. My palms were sweaty, my knees were knocking together, and my mouth and dried up somewhere between the fifth and sixth floor. I tepidly worked my way over to the receptionist seated behind the glass partition, her blue and green striped hair adding a much needed vibe of color to the otherwise Spartan waiting room. I knocked twice, eliciting her attention from that day's crossword.
"Hi, Jack Logan. I'm the new-" The receptionist cut me off.
"They're expecting you. Go on in." She buzzed me in, returning her concentration to the crossword as quickly as she had lifted it. I inhaled deeply, and then moved forward through the unlocked door, ready to begin my new career as a writer.
The office floor that lay beyond was, to say the least, a letdown. I had expected a bustling nerve center of the latest occurrences in the wide world of music. A couple disheveled individuals shuffling about and one computer was a far cry from that vision. I was about to check and make sure this was the right office when the magazine's founder, Dean Hopkins, emerged from his office to greet me.
"Ian, good to see you. We've read your writing samples, we checked out your references, everything, and we're really excited to have you aboard. Come with me, your office is this way." My office. I'll never get used to that. It sounded so foreign. I repeated the phrase over in my head, but it still didn't fit. Dean showed me into...my office. There was a sizable dark wood desk, an office surplus chair... and nothing else. The room wasn't exactly gigantic, though. As a matter of fact, I had my suspicions it was just a coat closet with a window
"Feel free to fix the place up however you want. We put in an order for laptops, but they've still got a day to come in. Now come on, I want you to meet the rest of the staff." I left my coat and notebook in my office and followed Dean, wondering in my head why he thought I needed an office in the first place.
After I had been properly introduced to everyone, Dean led me into his office and told me to have a seat. Seating himself on the opposite side, he handed me a concert ticket and a laminated badge clipped to a lanyard. I looked down at the ticket in an inwardly giddy anticipation, eager to see who my first interview would be with. I tried not to let my disappointment show when I silently read the name: Mandy Moore. My ex-girlfriend had been into her music, but I had never been too impressed with her songs. They never sounded all that interesting, and when you listened to her voice, it sounded like she wasn't all that interested either. Whatever the case was, I had my assignment, so I listened as Dean gave me my instructions.
"The concert starts at eight, but it's down in Foxboro, so you should get going now. Ninety-five's bound to be backed up, there's construction from here to Providence. Once you're at the venue, show your badge to whoever checks your ticket, you'll be fine from there." I rose from my seat, ready to leave, when Dean spoke up again.
"Oh, one more thing. Save any gas or food receipts. You get reimbursed for those."
"Great."
With that, I was out of the office, heading toward the parking garage, twirling the keys around my forefinger like a teenager strutting towards their first car. I tossed the notebook in the back, lit a Marlboro and sped out of the parking garage, Electric Six blasting out of the stereo. Granted, a thirteen-year old Honda Accord that is made up of none of the original parts can't "blast" anything particularly well, but Electric Six sounds good coming out of anything.
An hour and fifteen minutes later, I was beginning to wonder if Dean was psychic. Road crews were scattered quite liberally across ninety-five replacing asphalt, apparently one granule at a time. And to make the trip complete, I was running low on gas. I was debating turning off and asking for directions at a gas station, but I knew if there weren't any back roads, I'd most likely be late for my first interview, and that wouldn't look too great. I stared at the needle teetering near empty for a few minutes, then at the exit sign. Then I noticed I was down to two cigarettes. That sealed it. I signaled and slowly crawled to the strangely empty off-ramp.
